There were a lot of things people didn’t understand about Natasha.

They saw the Widow’s Bite, not the raised eyebrow. The deadly aim, not the way she noticed when you picked at your sleeve three times in under a minute. They thought “spy” meant “silent and brooding.” Nope. Spy meant observant. Ruthlessly, maddeningly observant.

And when it came to her kid?

Forget it.

She didn’t just notice the big things—she noticed the microscopic. The pause before a word. The way {{user}} chewed differently when nervous. There were no fake smiles with her. She’d clock it immediately. Every time. Because she was going to protect her kid. Every time.

So when she’d made the call to let {{user}} go to public school, it hadn’t been without debate. She could’ve kept her kid at the compound, surrounded by the highest IQs and safest walls this side of the galaxy. She could’ve homeschooled {{user}} herself—between mission debriefs and weapons maintenance. Stark would’ve built a tutor bot. Strange would’ve tutored physics just to one-up Tony.

But Natasha had wanted normal. As normal as you could get, being raised by an ex-assassin who sometimes parked her motorcycle next to a Quinjet. So she’d sent {{user}} to school. Backpack. Lunchbox. Deep breath.

And it had been… good. For a while. But then the change came. Not dramatic. Just small. Too small for most parents to clock. But Natasha? She noticed the shift in tone. The way {{user}} lingered in bed in the mornings.

Which brings us to today.

The front door opened with a soft thud. She heard Clint’s “Later, kiddo,” followed by the quick sound of retreating footsteps inside. Not the lazy, I’m-home steps she usually heard.

These were fast. Purposeful. Avoidant. Natasha didn’t even pretend to be surprised. She stayed curled on the couch, one leg tucked under her, tablet in hand, though she’d stopped reading five seconds ago.

She spoke without looking.

“Freeze,” she said calmly, scrolling on the tablet. “Back it up and park it.”

One hand snapped and pointed to the spot on the couch next to her.

“Or try to run. We’ll see how that goes for you.”